Lucky Lara
by Jennifer Jolie
Summary: (Undergoing complete renovation!) A novelization of Lara's plane crash in the Himalayas. Little girls aren't toys.
1. Foreword

Right. It has been a while. I¡¯ve noticed I disappeared from this fandom for quite a while. Anybody remember me? ^^ I went to The Matrix¡­ then one day I talk to Lara online, read her fic, read some more fics, and that¡¯s it, I have to get back in here. I missed this place. *hugs*

I was persuaded to get back writing. I was going to do Skin Deep, I think, but anyway, I¡¯ve redone Lucky Lara, my good ol¡¯ fic. I¡¯ve been planning to do this for quite a while. Changed a lot of it, I suppose, did my research and stuff. My writing style¡¯s changed over the year, if that¡¯s apparent. 

I¡¯ve decided to try to keep Lara properly in character ¨C I noticed her personality wavered considerably. Also, I wanted to put this back all at once but I¡¯ve decided that if I do that, I will _never_ get this fic done. 

So read, please, review, and enjoy. ^^ Muchlove from me to you, and I love feedback. 


	2. Chapter one

¡°Last call for passenger Miss Lara Croft of flight one-sixteen at gate twenty-four. Last call for passenger Miss Croft of flight one-sixteen at gate twenty-four.¡±  
  
Startled, I quickly slammed my book shut and threw open the bathroom door. I ran the tap and dipped my fingers in the blessedly cool water, running a hand over my sleek brown hair, braided down my back. It wasn¡¯t my fault that I had lost track of the time, was it? I had broken my Omega rock climbing (it was that or my wrist) and father still hadn¡¯t sent me a new one. It wasn¡¯t my fault that the airport¡¯s lavatory was the only place I could read in complete solitude. Or that Miss Millet was a complete book lover (oh, she just _loved_ books). _Stupid finishing school_, I swore silently. I could have had a governess. What was the difference anyway?  
  
_Father_, I thought bitterly. Father was the difference.  
  
Slinging my bag over my shoulder in the most unladylike position possible (whether intentional or not I couldn¡¯t tell), I made a mad dash for gate twenty-four. Eyes turned on me, mostly male. I wasn¡¯t too surprised. I wasn¡¯t a bad sight, after all.  
  
¡°Miss Croft! What do I see?¡± shrilled a voice. I wished unto her a headache. ¡°Dresses are for walking in, not for running. And what did I tell you about posture? A lady does not hunch over like some primitive animal.¡± Miss Millet positively spat out the word, as if it were poisonous. Nothing wrong with primitive animals, if you ask me. Some people even believe we were descended from them, after all. I pretended to guiltily sort out my rumpled, ankle-length skirt, which was part of the uniform ¨C now _that_ was primitive - for Millet Swiss Finishing School. It was also the worst possible thing to try running in. A wedding gown might have been a better choice, train, veil and all, right down to the blood red roses and sparkling diamonds. Fortunately she hadn¡¯t seen the tear down the side, which I had made on purpose anyway. Did she believe I enjoyed running in it?  
  
¡°That¡¯s better,¡± she muttered, as if cursing me. From Miss Millet this was almost exuberant praise. Probably only because she had used up every ladylike insult on me already.  
  
I quickly lost myself amongst the others in the line. Miss Millet proceeded to the front. I watched her walking - tiny, mincing steps with the ramrod-straight back, which seemingly defied gravity. The line constantly wavered as girls ran to talk to their friends further up or back in the line, giggling frantically as if their lives depended on it. I couldn¡¯t stand that.  
  
Fortunately we soon boarded the plane. Or, perhaps, unfortunately. Being last in line, I had the task of being last of walking down the aisle of the aircraft. Rows and rows and faces and faces.  
  
¡±Aye, it¡¯s Lara!¡± shrieked one girl. ¡°Laddies, look at her _skirt_! What¡¯s that, then?¡± The rip up side didn¡¯t show the skin-tight Bermudas I donned, rolled up so they were barely halfway down to my thighs. For their benefit, I pulled my skirt straight up, grinning widely. I didn¡¯t even have to bring it past my knees. They all screamed and covered their eyes.

¡°A shocking display!¡± wailed the school¡¯s model pupil, eyes squinted shut, looking as though she might cry.

¡°Honestly, it¡¯s _books_ now. What¡¯ll it be next, glasses?¡± The speaker tossed her head like a shampoo commercial. ¡°_Reading¡­_¡±

_If you were me_, I just barely bit the words down, _you¡¯d read too_. Personally, crumbly pyramids and dusty mummies were better than crumbly school buildings and dusty teachers. Sacrificial rituals to manners and etiquette (not that they weren¡¯t necessary, but _honestly_!). Ancient royalty who grew up to murder their own parents to-  
  
¡°Father,¡± I whispered out loud.  
  
He was the reason why I ever came to this forsaken place anyway. ¡°My dear, if you are to grow a lady you must then know the basic rules of etiquette.¡± Etcetera, etcetera, blah blah blah. He was such a traditionalist, useless, a wet blanket. I frankly couldn¡¯t really stand him. Chew with your mouth shut. Don¡¯t talk with your mouth full. Good enough. But to go to a full-fledged school¡­  
  
¡°Lara! You idiot! I say, there you are! I¡¯ve been looking everywhere for you! Lara!¡±  
  
I glanced up. Rebecca, I realized, something next to relief surging through me. I hurried over to her. 

¡°What _did_ you do? Millet looks as if she might explode! I daresay, you _are_ jolly flushed. Whatever have you been up to?¡± Smiling, Rebecca pushed her long, luxuriously curly blonde tresses away from her face. It was the kind of hair that went with enormous smoky violet eyes and full, glossy lips, which together made a good model for doll manufacturers. I was just out of my awkward stage ¨C braces just off, learning that I should never tie my hair in two ponytails unless I wished to look like a grasshopper. I hated how young I looked.  
  
Rebecca was another forcibly put up pupil and my best friend at finishing school. She was also my only friend at finishing school and for the same reason as me - unhappy, upset, misunderstood, and sick of the damn place. I really, truly had someone to call a friend, for the first time in my life. I¡¯d helped her with some course work and in return she had taught me odd jobs she¡¯d learned here and there - picking locks, breaking into offices, that sort of thing. Where she¡¯d learned these tricks I truly couldn¡¯t say. I daresay she preferred chatting, but that way, I could read to a running commentary. Most amusing.   
  
We weren¡¯t your typical best friends. True. A lot of our time was spent sitting side by side, reading. It was mostly a give-and-take friendship. Still, we were close.  
  
I quickly took my seat next to her, a window seat. Miss Millet had booked the entire rickety flight (though there were only nineteen of us, including her) for the end-of-training ski trip to some cheap resort town just off the Himalayas. Probably to show off some last-minutes etiquette of how to ski with your legs firmly pressed together or something. 

The flight was just about a cardboard box on wings, with a propeller with the might of a ceiling fan mounted on the front. We¡¯d probably go on for as long as I could hold my breath. Though for our sakes¡¯, I hoped not.

As expected, we both pumped our walkmans to the max and read. The other girls claimed to read too, but really they were just ogling the male models in fashion magazines; sometimes even Rebecca. Not me, though. There was one girl who read about horses and nothing else, but how many ways were there to curry a pony? 

Nothing better than a long, quiet read of archaeology with the classics, I decided cheerfully. I did, however, lower my book ever so slightly as the plane took off to watch the nauseated expressions of my dear schoolmates. It was evident that none of them had thought of air sickness ¨C though I¡¯d seen someone packing mosquito lotion.  
  
I should¡¯ve known it was too good to last.


	3. Miss Millet

The making of this fic was aided greatly by other fics related to this topic. If you see something here which looks your own writing and are upset about it, please do not hesitate to inform me (drop me a review, PLEASE don't mail me).  
  
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(Lara)  
  
"Last call for passenger Miss Croft of flight one-sixteen at gate twenty- four. Last call for passenger Miss Croft of flight one-sixteen at gate twenty-four."  
  
Startled, I quickly slammed my book shut and threw open the toilet door. It wasn't my fault that I had lost track of the time, was it? Or that the airport's lavatory was the only place where I could read in complete solitude. Or that Miss Millet was a complete book lover- not. Stupid finishing school, I thought. Stick me in a library and I can be quiet and a lady and all that and even enjoy myself. What was the difference anyway?  
  
Father, I thought bitterly. Father was the problem.  
  
Slinging my bag over my shoulder in the most unladylike position possible (whether intentional or not I couldn't tell), I made a mad dash for gate twenty-four.  
  
"Miss Croft! What do I see? Dresses are for walking in, not for running. And what did I tell you about posture? A lady does not hunch over like some primitive animal." She positively spat out the word, as if it was poisonous. I pretended to guiltily sort out my rumpled, ankle-length skirt, which was the uniform for Millet Swiss Finishing school. It was also the worst possible thing to try running in. A wedding gown might have been a better choice, train, veil and all. Fortunately she hadn't seen the tear.  
  
"That's better," she muttered as if cursing me. From Miss Millet this was almost exuberant praise. Probably only because she had used up every ladylike insult on me already.  
  
I quickly lost myself amongst the others in the line. Miss Millet proceeded to the front. I watched her walking- tiny, mincing steps with the ramrod- straight back which seemingly defied gravity.  
  
We boarded the plane. Being last in line, I had the task of being last of walking down the aisle of the aircraft. Rows and rows and faces and faces.  
  
"She's so lucky,  
  
She's the girl  
  
With the grand, grand, grand  
  
And the rich old man  
  
If there's something missing in her life  
  
It shows, cause all she does is read."  
  
If you were me you'd read too. Personally crumbly pyramids and dusty mummies were better than crumbly school buildings and dusty teachers. Sacrificial rituals to manners and etiquette (not that they weren't necessary). Ancient royalty who grew up to murder their own parents to-  
  
"Father," I whispered out loud.  
  
He was the reason why I ever came to this forsaken place anyway. "My dear, if you are to grow a lady you must then know the basic rules of etiquette." Chew with your mouth shut. Don't talk with your mouth full. Good enough. But to go to a school…  
  
"Lara!"  
  
I glanced up. Rebecca, I realized, relief surging through me.  
  
Rebecca was another forcibly put up pupil (pupils of manners?!!) and my best friend at finishing school. She was also my only friend at finishing school and for the same reason as me- unhappy, misunderstood, and sick of the place. And for the first time in my life I really, truly had someone to call a friend. I'd helped her with some work and in return she taught me odd jobs she'd learned here and there- stealing cars, picking locks, breaking into offices, that sort of thing.  
  
True. We weren't your typical best friends. A lot of our time was spent sitting side by side reading. But we were best friends.  
  
I quickly took my seat next to her, a window seat. Miss Millet had booked the entire flight (though there were only nineteen of us, including her) for the end-of-training ski trip to the Himalayas. Probably to show off some last-minutes etiquette of how to ski with your legs firmly pressed together or something. Anyway the flight was barely a cardboard box on wings.  
  
As expected, we both pumped our walkmans to the max and read. Nothing better than a long, quiet read of archaeology with Nine Inch Nails, I decided cheerfully.  
  
I should've known it was too good to last. 


	4. Glass?

(Rebecca)  
  
"Lara?" I tapped softly on the door.  
  
"Who is it?" She burst out. Her words were stumbling over tears.  
  
"Rebecca. Are you OK?"  
  
No response.  
  
"I heard some glass breaking-"  
  
"-I'm not trying to kill myself. Not a bad suggestion though. Where should I stick this piece? Through my neck or into my jugular vein? Aorta or spinal chord? "  
  
I sighed, but knew she certainly wouldn't do that. Life had little meaning, she'd said, but death had none. "Is anything I say going to make you come out? Like Rose is an ugly wally?"  
  
"Thank you but no. I'm sorry Rebecca."  
  
Aargh. Finishing school was obviously rubbing off on her. I could even hear the punctuation marks and grammer. Aargh.  
  
"Well anyway try and come out soon," I called, though there was still no response. Mood swings, I figured.  
  
"Ca! Ca! Ca!" I cringed. Crow yourself. Lara wasn't around. I had to stand up for myself.  
  
"Good morning," I said pleasantly. Aargh. Finishing school again.  
  
"So what are you going to do now that Ritchie Rich isn't here? Read?" Aw shut up Rose. She's no richer than you are (well, maybe…) and reading isn't illegal.  
  
Her backups, Mabel and Brittaney joined her.  
  
"As a matter of fact I might. And I'm sure Miss Millet won't approve of your, er, language misuse," I said loudly, with the hope she might hear.  
  
Not being sharp enough, Rose conveniently ignored my comment. And single though she was, Miss Millet was no rosebud- they always said hearing was the first to go, didn't they?  
  
"So what is Ritchie Rich doing?"  
  
I carefully eyed her wallet poking out of her pocket. Not a bad job.  
  
"That is for her to disclose when she is ready. Also, she is not a guy, although I'm sure she'll be much richer now," I added as I pushed past her to my seat. Her jaw unhinged like a cartoon and her face was stupidly blank.  
  
When she checked her pocket her expression was priceless.  
  
And when her friends did it was to die for- and I almost suffocated chewing back silent giggles.  
  
I had yet to teach Lara to pick pockets. 


	5. Glass

(Lara)  
  
"Lara! Reading again?" That was it. I needed an amplifier for my player. Rebecca obviously did too, as she sat up with a start.  
  
"What're you doing reading? Go and spend the deluded man's cash or something."  
  
"What I'd do with a wallet like that… you shouldn't study so, you'll ruin your looks and no one'll want you. Trust me, just go get some prince out there and you'll have it easy."  
  
"Isn't she lucky?" They all broke into song again. "Lucky Lara!"  
  
Rebecca was shaking. I ignored the seatbelt turbulence sign and bolted from my seat, tearing down those carpeted aisles and the faces- the faces. Away. I locked myself up in the bathroom. Then I sat down on the floor and started to cry.  
  
"Lucky Lara," I whispered. "Is that who you think I am?"  
  
So money made someone happy. Staring at piles of cold metal was happiness. Right.  
  
Or was it?  
  
I got completely lost in my thoughts until I heard someone knocking on the door. They couldn't make me come out. Only Rebecca, as far as I knew, could pick locks (as if Miss Millet could) and anyway an airplane lock was sure to be tighter.  
  
With a fierce surge of adrenaline, I suddenly snatched up a glass and threw it against the mirror.  
  
As if in slow motion, I watched my own tear-streaked, glowering face crack, then fall, and finally shatter on the floor. Tiny shards of glass flew up and embedded themselves in the wall and on the sink, sinking in my arms and leaving deep red flecks of blood. 


	6. Birds

(Rebecca)  
  
I've never liked birds. Not really. A ball of feather and bone. Flapping pointlessly around. Not much good unless roasted. Call me a glutton, but I happen to be of a very acceptable weight.  
  
I don't like them one bit- especially now since a flock has suddenly crashed through the windshield. Everyone- Rose especially- is screaming, even though it should be the poor birds doing that.  
  
I still don't care for them though. Not to mention that they somehow managed to knock the pilot unconscious.  
  
How do I stay so calm during a dilemma like this amazes even me.  
  
I tear off my seatbelt and rush through the already open cockpit. The pilot is squished on the floor in a mass of blood and feathers. I don't like the sight of him. He looks too much like a bird.  
  
He's not breathing anymore.  
  
Everyone is screaming. Screaming. The plane suddenly veers right and amazingly, there is a moment of silence.  
  
Screams. I'm going to die.  
  
Still in the cockpit, I can see Miss Millet wobble and suddenly crash, displaying her knickers in a most unladylike fashion. Ha. A quick glance out the window tells me that we're still flying over mountains. I imagine myself squished, like the pilot, with ice cubes for blood. Would we ever be found? Would I die straight away, or slowly and painfully? Would it even hurt?  
  
And then suddenly the plane flips over and we're plunging down. 


	7. Wheel of Fortune

(Lara)  
  
Darn. I shouldn't have broken that glass. I can feel the razor-sharp bits of glass pricking as I get thrown none too gently into a corner of the stupid washroom.  
  
I can only guess what's happened to the plane.  
  
But I can only know- and ignorance would've been bliss- that we're going to crash.  
  
I'm thrown onto the door this time and fumble with the catch. Suddenly I feel a sharp sting and my fingers come away bloody.  
  
Cursed glass. How the heck did that piece end up there?  
  
The plane spins- sort of like Wheel of Fortune. I picture myself landing on numbers- the numbers of my hospital bill, if I were to get out alive.  
  
Five thousand. That's the sink in my abdomen. I clench my teeth together and taste blood.  
  
A thousand five. Everything on the door again, plus little bits of glass.  
  
I cry out as I'm thumped on the ceiling. That had to be a free vacation. My hand gets caught on some more glass. The world starts to spin- and fall. We're plummeting down.  
  
Bankrupt. 


	8. Without goodbye

(Lara)

I don't remember. I don't remember because I'll never know. The lavatory door was stuck. No one will know anymore, will they? I can only guess what those people were seeing- snow flying in dizzying white storms at the windows, baggage crashing off the racks, blood.

How is it like to die? Does it hurt? Do you see an explosion of colour, blood red, black, or nothing at all? Can you still hear- or even think? Would you die and remember?

And do those we love, truly, truly, leave us?

_No,_ I decided. _No, that isn't true. No._

_It couldn't be. Or could it? I had never known my mother._

I'd lived. That's right, I wasn't dead. The plane was still intact, too. Or most of it. Upright to say the least. The seats, however, had all flipped over.

My wrist knocked into the toppled sink, which sent a stream of burning water down my hand as I forced open the door. I limped out, alive. A bleeding lump on my head, a scalded wrist, badly bruised knees and shin, a twisted ankle, several bloody gashes- this was the price of survival. Life had little meaning, but death had none.

I would later realize that simply physical pain was an insufficient price to pay for surviving. Far too little.

Where was everyone? Then I knew. I turned over a seat. It was Rose. Her neck was partially severed- she was unmistakably dead. I gasped aloud at the expression on her face- why must we all remember the things we most want to forget? 

It was like a game- flipping over seats and discovering, under each, a sight more nightmarish than the last. Miss Millet had died with her skirt straight up and her knickers showing, cowering under a chair. Not one of them was alive.

And then I found the worst sight of all. Rebecca.

She wasn't dead. Her eyes were half closed, and matted over. Her breathing was shallow and distant. 

"Rebecca?" My voice cracked and trailed off. She didn't respond. Not at all.  "Rebecca?" I grabbed her by her shoulders and shook her. Nothing. Not even a gasping breath, just that slow, steady breathing. Her eyes dulled.

_Scream, cry, anything. Just show me you're alive. Please._

Her eyes didn't close but I knew her breathing was slowing down. That was how I spent the last moments with my best friend. Watching her _die_. She didn't react to me at all. Her eyes were slits now, and completely lifeless, like the plastic disks on a doll. Rattly breathing was the only sound in the desolate mountain peak. I was still holding her hand when her breathing slowed. And slowed. And slowed. And stopped. All was silent, more silent than any calm, bright nights, more silent than my life without true genuine emotion; true, genuine friendship; feelings, more silent than the lonesome days of my secluded life, more silent than the grave. This was, after all, a mass grave.

She was dead, and I was alone. Everything I'd ever loved in my life had walked out without saying goodbye.

In this mass grave, somewhere beneath all the death and grief and blood and my own friends, I thought something inside me had died. I'll never know.


	9. A or B?

FOREWORD: I do not really know where she got the compass, I changed that bit, so I don't own the compass, I own *this version* of the origin. I have no idea what an avalanche is like, due to the fact that I have never been in one. Duh. Also, the only experience with severe cold that I have had recently was when I hurt my knee playing Netball and I had to ice it. Not very cold. So please forgive me. (also I totally suck at describing mountains I have learned!) Oh, I own Rebecca as well but nothing else in this fic. Sorry once again about the mountain!

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(Lara)

_She's dead. They're dead. You're not. You didn't do anything because you couldn't. There was nothing you could do anyway. _Even in my mind the words hurt. And they felt stupid. 

I was so thickly wrapped in clothing (pinched from various people) I resembled- pick one: a) Luciano Pavorotti or b) a walrus (a pink one). I vouched for Pavorotti.

The mountain we had landed on was conveniently shaped like a) blocks stacked up, the numbers growing smaller towards the top or b) a rectangular pyramid. A very odd mountain. I decided b. The plane had crashed on approximately the third out of fourteen layers. 

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                                                The mountain is something like this, except with 14 layers. Sorry it looks so weird!

I had taken Rebecca's compass because- pick one: a) it would give me direction or b) of sentimental reasons. I hoped it was more b than a.

In all of ten minutes, the little pleasure I had found in my life was gone. How could I even call it a life- how on earth was I meant to get down this mountain? 

Things then inexorably began to go wrong. Everything goes inexorably wrong in my life, doesn't it? The ground shook and slid beneath my feet as the snow rolled down. In a wet spray of mist I was drenched from head to toe and shivering. The mountain had several 'ledges' on it, and the wall of mine was just slightly higher than me. Like an enormous ladder, with its rungs jutting out and me standing on one of them. Snow was pouring over my head like it was a waterfall and I was standing in some cave set in rock. Icy sleet was shooting over my head and in that cold, thundering, trembling cave I felt a twisted sense of peace. Freedom.

The plateau above me was giving way, I knew. The plane had long ago been buried in snow but I had  glimpsed a sunken hand before it disappeared into the snow. It had Rebecca's watch. She was saying a final goodbye, after all.

Daddy couldn't help me (like he would). Money couldn't help me. Rebecca couldn't help me. Only I could help myself.

And heck, yeah, I would.

I jumped up and seized the ledge behind me. I was blasted instantly with a freezing jet of snow, snow so cold I wondered for a split second if I was already dead and this was hellfire instead. I held the ledge firmly. The sea of snow brought debris of all kinds: twigs, rock, glass (the plane), metal, fabric, even human and animal carcasses. A wave of nausea washed over me as a bloody wolf's paw knocked my shoulder. The shock caused me to release the crumbling rock, and I tumbled backwards, in a directly downward cacophony of noise, panic and fear. 

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                      / ||||||||||||||||||||||||| \  Mountain now looks a bit like this (also with 14 layers however), with / and \ representing the snow flying off. Sorry once again, I know this is really weird!! The . is supposed to represent where Lara is approximately, before she releases the ledge.


	10. Ending sunrise

The trauma of my experience no longer tortured me; instead, it flew from me, like the delicate lacy snowflakes drifting lazily from the heavens. Still I rode on. My right hand started to ache, so I steered jerkily with my left instead. Amazingly, my bag hadn't been frayed in the slightest. The ice was that smooth. Chips of ice sprayed from below the stick as I slowed myself down to check the edges again.

For the first time in my life, I smiled a true, genuine, unforced, happy smile, and I felt as if I really meant it. For me. Just me. It couldn't be selfish as no one else was around.

Crimson snuck up on me and streaked the velveteen sky. It rippled like the waters of a lake, and golden crested waves creased and tumbled on their way to shore. Puffy clouds splashed randomly and everything was soon tinged with a ripe orange glow. My icy slide was a shimmering pink, like coconut ice, and I actually tried one the ice chips, and while it wasn't sweet, it was light and cleansing. I tried to make myself believe it was mint.

In this vast open space, I felt as if the whole slope, the whole sky, the whole _world_ belonged to me. _My_ sunrise. It was beautiful, but it was ending.

I was stunned to find myself so low to ground level already. The ground only looked about four stories away. There must be a village or something at the bottom. In a finale swooping dive like an eagle catching its prey, I descended the mountain.

Sorry that this one is short too! Chapter 10 and 11 were originally one but I split them. So now, the grueling research begins. Sighhh. Don't grow your hair waiting, I'm trying to do a proper job this time round and it'll be a while.


	11. Nothing anymore

Oh God. I'm going to die. Oh God. I can't breathe. I hurt everywhere that I'm not frozen. Oh God. I'm not big on religion but I was a drowning in snow girl clutching at gods. 

Oh Buddha.

My pack slipped off my shoulders ever so slightly, and I still couldn't breathe. Even if I could have breathed through this solid rush of excess falling snow it wouldn't have been much good – been thrown backwards violently every second probably would have jerked the wind out of me. I'd given up screaming because the flurry, none too clean, what with plane debris in it, had rushed into my mouth all at once. My eyes were tightly shut; I didn't want to see.

It wasn't fair! Why was this all happening to me anyway? Why hadn't I just died? Wait – I _was_ going to die. I was sure I was losing it. It must have been the lump on my head, and although falling down an ice-clad mountain was dreamlike but all too scary, the lump was all too real. I wondered how I had gotten it. Right- I fall down about two tiers of mountain – that was where I was now, still falling – and I don't sustain injuries. I was losing it.

My pack slipped still further, and even hindered by the sweeping tide I couldn't help it. I choked on a mouthful of the overwhelming snow again. I must have fallen past another tier by now. A strange, foreign numbness had set in, and I could not longer feel my limbs to move them. Somehow, this frightened me more than the pain, or the fact that I was in desperate need of oxygen – those things reminded me I was alive.

The pain suddenly washed over me again. The snow was suffocating me and my head reeled as I was flipped over and over, only mildly padded by the snow, which I was now aware, soaking me through and through, both jackets, school uniform, horrid skirt and all. I was so terrified, I even screamed a while more.

I choked out yet another mouthful of frost, and gasped violently as my mouth connected briefly with a gust of strong, wonderful wind. Then I was under the snowfall again. I kicked against the powerful stride and forced my way up to the top, gasping for air like an oblique vacuum cleaner. A pounding flurry whisked past my closed eyelids. I was numb again, and more scared than ever. 

Lucky Lara. Lucky Lara – ha. They'd called me lucky. Had I even known this Lara once? Was I still human underneath? Lucky Lara. Ha. I hadn't though I was lucky though. Was I lucky now? Could they see me now? Was it lucky to just live a fraction longer than they – and to live in this freezing hellhole a while longer? But if I hadn't been lucky then, what made me any luckier no matter what? Had I been ignorant to all that, was that truly life?

Lucky Lara.

Jesus Christ! I was going mad. Sweet Jesus! Anything had to be better than that life, anything. My head spun. Anything had to be better than that… anything, even… I realized suddenly, even _this_.

I was suffering. I was in pain, in cold, gasping for air, dying, and for the first time in my whole cursed, damned – yes, damned! – life, _I was truly alive_. 

My pack slipped again. I was so cold I couldn't feel anything again. And it was beautiful. Then I was dizzy. Have you ever thrown up while tumbling off an avalanching mountain? It's not fun.

Slowly, the beauty faded again. It was still there, I knew, but I found myself racking my brain. If I even had one at this hour. I had fallen about three more tiers too. Amen-Ra! Anubis! Screw. Anubis was god of the dead.

All feeling was numbed now- the nausea, the pain, the brutal thumping of my heart in my gullet, even the sharp sting of my hands grating on the sheer rock face as I searched for hand holds. More snow was forced down my throat. To my delirious self it was cool and refreshing. Glorious.

The schizophrenic side of me started acting up again and I found myself almost screaming again. I was still scared, more scared than I had ever been. Hermes! Ares!  By now I could tell I was somewhere on the second tier. Zeus…

Thor. Freya. Why was I calling on gods anyway? I hardly wanted to live- did I? I'd been alive for a terrifying rush down a mountain, and I wanted it to end now, didn't I? I couldn't breathe again. Another side of my mind fought with the cynical side, and I slowly seemed to fade out…

Instead, I coughed out more ice with frozen jaws. The other side of my mind had won. The side that still wanted to live. 

But I found myself choking and hacking away uncontrollably. I was scared again, having caught sight of a flash of scarlet in the snow. Blood – more of it. My mind screamed for oxygen and I couldn't feel anything. Nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

I was fading out of consciousness, I knew. Somewhere in my soul, something in me fought to stay alive. Life was beautiful. Somehow, beautiful, and I couldn't have cared less about anything at that sudden time rift that I'd fallen in love with the world I'd lived in. That brutal cruelty, the pain- it was all part of the unfair game of life, that we knew and loved. That _I'd_ loved.

But suddenly, another side of my mind took over. I ached everywhere and I wanted this merry-go-round to end. 

"Dear Jesus,' I mumbled through a mountain of snow. I coughed again. "Dead Jesus, I want to die now. Please." I knew how stupid and pathetic it sounded, and it had only resulted in more dirty snow down my throat. I was even dizzier than before. _Life is beautiful!_ Something screamed inside me. I didn't know anymore.

And then suddenly, my head stuck solid rock. Hard. I was positive it was somewhere at the base of the mountain, but I couldn't be sure. Sweet Jesus. My head was light, lighter than ever before. Amen.


	12. The Fates

Author's note: Sorry it took so very long! I took out a book on the [you'll see this later in the fic!] but I'm no expert. She encountered this only in a few of the bios I read, so according to some this may not be accurate but I thought it'd be a whole lot more interesting. :  ) Finally, as some of you already know, Jennifer SUCKS at writing fight sequences. Wince. So please, try to er, use some Barney imagination, whatever.

I do hope that I have the term _brachycephalic correct too. I'm no expert on heads either._

Finally, enjoy the twelfth and probably second-last chapter of Lucky Lara. :  )

_____________________________________________________________________

I was wrong. It was still an awful long way to the village, and the snow I was wading in was up to my waist at least. And I wasn't a short person. It was so deep and obstructive, however, that I figured it might have been better to actually carry out my previous plan and throw myself screaming off the mountain. Still, it was too late for that.

I confess that after my experience of trying to devour the mountain civilization wasn't kicking in much. Thus, I tried to actually swim through the snow. It was probably the revenge of the snowmen - this simply added more snow to the useless inside of my amazingly durable pink blancmange of a coat. It was no use against snow, and snow, despite its masses, was no use against wind.

I'd screamed in complete frustration. Unfortunately an enormous bugger of a snowstorm had kicked up – I won't try to count how many scalpels it felt like scratching away at my throat. 

There was absolutely no sign of the village. I was on a completely flat ground with no idea of where I was going. I still wanted to scream but instead used the few saved joules of energy to take another step. And another.

The blistering wind tore straight through me it seemed, and I could swear I felt my blood slowly freezing. Another step. Another step. I was so tired…

Certainly this was fate's game. Or perhaps fates' game – the three wizened, cantankerous old hags haggling over Lara Croft's thread of life. To cut or not to cut? They were pulling, tugging, fraying it, or more likely it simply slid over the rotting flesh of their time worn hands, sliding through the cracks of their chipped, yellowing nails, leaving bleeding lacerations on their bloody fingertips. Cackling and hissing at one another other through yellowing, grimy teeth. Backandforth and lifeanddeath… Or at least I hoped that my thread-self was putting up that kind of fight. I also hoped the three fates wouldn't be quite as I had imagined, or rather that I'd had stuck to Norse mythology rather than Greek.

Right now a really bad storm of swirling, slashing snow had built up again. It was The Snowmen's Revenge, straight out of a C-grade movie. But speaking of snowmen – _what was that?_

A… _human creature? Far through the blinding dance of snowflakes a bulky, Neanderthal shape seemed to be waddling towards me. There was something very odd about it…_

Not that it mattered.

I took off as never before. I tried to shout, but my voice once again froze somewhere along my throat. Never mind – the wind would have wrenched it from me anyway. Keeping my head down and eyes tightly shut I continued on towards it.

There really was something strange about the creature – especially the lumbering but alarming pace he moved at, plugging through the snow as if… as if it wasn't there. The blurry outlines of him got clearer and cleared, no longer hampered by distance…

A rind of dark crescent on the sugar frosted cake of the plain – the village.

Another step, another step, clearer, still clearer – 

The man was very tall, I realized as we closed the distance between us to around ten meters or so. Brachycephalic, and he appeared to be wrapped snugly in some reddish-brown, fuzzy parka. In the distance, I thought I could see a straggly, bedraggled _tree, and the snow was thinning rapidly. _

And then I saw it.

That was no man.

It was some large, hairy _ape on two legs, arms outstretched like a prowling zombie. It was covered with reddish-brown, shaggy fur from head to toe and only its face was visible. Only its expression was visible. And it was unmistakably hungry._

My first instinct was to run – where? Seeing how quickly it advanced – even now, and given my current constitution – I wasn't going anywhere. My second instinct was to try to hide. Of course. My third instinct was to scream, and that was definitely out. The fourth instinct wasn't an instinct, merely a choice. To fight back.

_With what? My shoe?_

Feverishly I dug around in my pack, searching for something of some use. It was tricky to avoid the snow in my eyes. My comb – it wouldn't penetrate that advancing hirsute hide. My broken discman – certainly not. 

Come to think of it, my shoe was probably the best option.

My wristwatch? My crackers? My… _stick? Some words caught my eye, shiny in the dimming twilight. I'd never noticed how one side of it was larger than the other – it'd been dark when I'd skied. _

And suddenly, I knew what the strange boxes were.

I cracked open the first on my knee as I tried to run past BogeyMan, as I'd christened him. And then I slotted the clip in. And then I turned around the face the ape. 

BogeyMan snarled at me – a thin line of saliva snapped between its menacing jaws. So close was it that I felt it damp, hot breath on my skin. Suddenly a clawed arm shot out and torn a long gash down the side of my coat. I cried out as they pierced my skin, dragging a long streak of blood from my shoulder to my elbow.

It didn't seem deep though. I clenched my teeth, took a large step back, and pulled the trigger.

The shotgun's kick made me stagger backwards, almost sitting on the snow. Chunks of sinew and bone spurted out as a streamer of blood tricked down its fur. BogeyMan howled but did not stop.

I was really, really terrified now. I squeezed my eyes shut, braced myself, and shot again. This time he didn't seem so peeved – kept coming.

I ran blindly backwards, firing off at random. At least three more of my shots wounded it, some severely, but Bogey just didn't seem to know the meaning of pain.

He pounced. Completely crushing me with his weight, he clawed at my legs and I took another wound to my ankle as well. I shot twice more, dry fired, but wounded it considerably. Somehow he got his teeth into my wrist. Before he could really chomp down I chucked the useless shotgun at him. He rolled off for the time being and the pressure on my chest eased slightly. I took in a great gulp of air – my mind cleared ever so slightly. 

And then he was on me again, battering me like a rag doll, probably about to eat me alive. Dizzy with pain, I barely heard the human shouting, in English, or felt the tension suddenly withdraw. All I knew finally was a whole, benevolent darkness slowly creeping around the edges of my swaying vision, consuming me for a part of the shadow.


	13. Laughing

Author's Apology: Sorry. In the previous chapter I mentioned a Norse god called Freya. It ought to be Freyja. I think. :  ) Greek gods, not Norse, are my speciality. I enjoy snubbing anyone who gets the facts wrong. :  ) I also hope that I can keep this all heavy and depressing. Heh heh. Once again, I apologize for my ignorance of life on a mountain. Also, if you're free, would you read Sugar and Spice for me? Lol. But I need some reviews… beg beg beg. P.S. I repeat myself plenty in this chapter. Sorry folks.

I awoke to find myself laughing. Laughing at the sheer insanity of it all. Or was it sanity? I'd asked to live, I was alive. I'd asked to die, I was going to die. It made perfect sense. Somehow. I shook with laughter, watching my own blood slowly trail down my face, kiss my lips softly and fall onto the fresh snow that I was lying in. Somehow I felt light, free, and happier than ever. Alive. Truly, wonderfully alive.

Now I was really, _really_ losing it. Wait, I was already losing it. I even contemplated laughing again. Heck, what did it matter? What did all of it freaking matter?

Did this happen to everyone lost in distant deserts, mountains, islands? Robinson Crusoe? Fancy myself as Robinson Crusoe. All alone, surrounded by nothing but cold, I could cry, scream, fling off my clothes and dance naked down the mountain side. It all didn't seem to matter. It was the freedom thing again.

I laughed instead, to no one, nothing. I was doing something for myself, not due to anyone, not for anyone, not because of anyone, just myself. Trivial as it was. But my lungs seemed to glue together, squeeze, until I could hardly draw breath. It turned to a hacking cough, and flecks of blood spattered the snow. They seemed to grow, and swirl, then all the snow was blood red, and slowly the entire sky. It continued, even as my head whirled for fresh air, until slowly, the crimson scene darkened to a whole miasma of shadow.

                                                            ~*~

Why? Why? _Why?_ Why wasn't I dead? The sky was a true black now. I'd fainted. They say that cold numbs, and it was true once more. It was the sharp prickling like a red-hot iron no longer, but a sleepy, tepid ache. My limbs seemed to be made of treacle. Slowly my eyes adjusted to the dark and I was able to recognize that I was on a small plateau, fashioned like a pit stop, leading from a crude steep mountain path. There must be civilization on this mountain. It, however, seemed as if people seldom commuted on this particular stretch, because the path was crumbling around the edges and smothered in a thick sheet of ice.

I had to go on. Heaven or Hell had tossed it in my path. Whether I wanted to die or not I had to go on.

I was pushing myself up to a sitting position when my right arm gave way. With a splitting crack, my chin hit the ground and I bit my lip, hard. Could you get tetanus from your chin? Probably not, I mused, the bacteria or whatever were all probably on a vacation in the Caribbean or someplace warmer.

Wincing, I hauled myself up anyway, trying to ignore the metallic, warm taste of fresh blood. I didn't dare to spit it out, lest I should start coughing and pass out again. I tried to imagine the time Rebecca pulled a wedgie on Miss Millet and convinced her that Rose had done it. It kept me going on, up, as I drew strength from that memory of the past that seemed so long ago. Tears crept to my eyes but I blinked them away. I was finally kneeling, starting to crawl the metre or so to the path. At the rate I was going, it would take me all day to reach it. Sweat trickled down my temple even in the mild exhilaration and my right arm didn't move to wipe it away. To my horror, it dangled limply – I'd dislocated it. My left arm throbbed when I raised it instead and when I finally wiped the sweat away, my finger came away bloody. The lump on my head was still oozing, after all. I was hardly even aware of it now, just as excruciating clutch of my arms.

I reached the icy slide at long last. My stupid pink coat had actually stayed in basically one piece though I had fallen off mountains and crawled around in it. From my pack I produced a long metal stick I had snatched off the plane; I didn't know why and I still didn't know what it was. There were several small, strange boxes fastened to it, I unclipped them and put them back in my bag with stiff, frozen fingers. Then, I slid it under my, dug the stick into the ground, and pushed off.

Lucky Lara. I'd asked to go skiing, and voila, I was skiing! I found myself laughing, yet again. It was a very strange world.

  



	14. Marshmallow

Author's note (maybe I can start a column): Hey again. Completed this as you can see. Unless I think of something drastic next chapter will be our last. :'  ( It's been a wonderful experience at any rate. Thanks for all the reviews. :  ) 

This sounds a bit like an Oscar speech.

Finally, as a bit of an advertisement, if you're free, could you _please_, please check out Once Loved? That's my new fic; it's my second attempt at a free-fall Tomb Raider script (I don't count this as a free-fall; I was just copying the facts). I'd really appreciate some support for that. Where Silent Lines, however, will have to be quiet a while longer. Sorry chaps.

Thanks once again to everyone. As for real life people I'd like to thank Clarenova and Constance because I sit behind you wonderful people and can write during Chinese. Auntie Wong won't be pleased now, will she?

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

(From the viewpoint of Dr. Leisky. I believe his name is John; I am unsure of this. I'll go check but if anyone knows, could you pleasy please tell me? Thanks. :  ))

(Background: Dr. Leisky was an American missionary. I do not think he was a medical kind of doctor but I thought he might as well be. :  ))

Imagine their surprise when I brought a marshmallow home. A big, pink marshmallow. Well, that's what I called her from then on. The rest of the Himalayans took one look at her and began yodeling about something I translated to something of a Himalayan Ghost. They are the kindest folks but so very superstitious. They see demons and ghouls and spooks and phantoms and monsters and all that sort of thing everywhere, bless them.

I dumped Marshmallow on my desk after throwing my books onto the floor, and I _mean_ throwing. I came here for hands-on, not to reading time. I hate those dusty volumes. It is little wonder that I have not used my desk all year.

She was very cold. Half dead even. Come to think of it, marshmallow might not have been the best word. Perhaps Popsicle. She was freezing. How long she'd been out there I couldn't say. 

Now, I know I wear stripes when you're meant to wear plaid, but isn't it a bit curious for young girls to be running around old abandoned villages wielding shotguns? Ah well. Times have certainly changed.

I got down to the business of dressing her wounds. Something had lost a lot of blood. To stay pessimistic I'd say it was she. After all, the odds had been badly against her. When I took off the top three coats while trying to keep her as warm as I possible could, I noticed something. All her clothes were grimy, soggy, and stained freshly red, but she didn't seem to have too many open wounds. I mean, she was scratched everywhere, had a dislocated elbow had a nasty bump on her head, and of course huge scrapes on her knees and elbows, but most had already clotted. She surely had then hit that beastly thing pretty bad with that ridiculous shotgun. Times really have changed since I was her age; which was no twenty years ago. Judging from her looks it might even be five. I wasn't an old gray bearded man yet, after all.

With a bit of a nasty shock I realized that the village chief was silently standing next to me. He would really be quite grand-looking if he hadn't been the shortest man in the village. He was one of the only chums here who spoke English. Still, he had the same ghost prone instincts as the rest of them, and was rather like one himself. He emerged from the strangest places like a daisy popping out the snow.

"Who she?" he asked haltingly. He was really a nice guy but his English wasn't the best. As smoothly as I could, I told him that I'd found this girl on the slopes of an old abandoned village I'd been exploring and simply carried her back as she was hurt and seemed to be no one's property (I left out the last bit as this poor fellow didn't have much of a sense of humor). I knew my grammar was terrible, so I simply decided not to tell him about my observations of her constitution.

News spreads quickly in this town. By the time I'd fully communicated my point across the rest of the village was effectively and efficiently squished in my little wooden hut, bless them. Fortunately they made the hut quite warm, and as they were quietly watching me I had no objections to their presence.

I yanked off Marshmallow's last jacket and uttered and exclamation. She was wearing what had once been a classy, expensive school uniform with a heavily plaited skirt and curiously, a long rip on one side. 

Hadn't teams and teams of reporters and medics come looking for these girl just days ago? They'd come from some school in Denmark, no, Switzerland, and had crashed just above a week ago…

How in the name of heaven had she survived? She must be inhuman. Bless her.

There was a dark bloodstain in her left sleeve. I rolled it back anxiously, praying it was shallow. Two crescent, dotted red lines greeted me. A bite; but not from sharp teeth. No fangs. I breathed a sigh of relief. There was, however, an audible gasp from the village; it was like Dolby Surround Sound.

"Yeti!" declared the chief it his hushed dramatic tones. The next minute, the whole room was bursting with mad villagers squawking, "Yeti! Yeti!" like headless chickens. The two children also joined in, running around in circles, squealing, "'Eti! 'Eti!"

Really now, I thought, as I cleaned the bite. It was clearly that of some large flat-toothed dog, maybe even a wolf. Then again, that didn't seem right. Perhaps a monkey. I tried to ask my demented chief friend whether there were apes in these parts. After all, I had seen something like that jawing at poor Marshmallow. Instead, he told me a long, long, _long_ tale of how a mysterious monkey-man (ape man, I surmised) used to pop in and out as it pleased to steal their cows, occasionally chewing on peoples' limbs. He drew me a picture with my ballpoint pen inside one of those revolting books (the villagers go bananas over ballpoints). Chillingly it was an exact replica of what I had seen. The scariest thing was the tracks… they matched mine curve by curve.

My chief seemed to be very satisfied with himself.

By now I'd just about patched Marshmallow up and the villagers were quiet again (several were hoarse). It's not often they have such excitement, so this was really quite a treat for them. I opened up Marshmallow's bag, wondering what she was carrying, apart from various weapons. At the very bottom of the bad was a snare of colorful wires and little metal slides - a broken discman, almost crushed beyond recognition. I inched it open and examined the disc, which was in two pieces. The I frowned slightly. I'd always though that nine inch nails, however impractical, were more of a manicure.

The hazy, watery lighting in my hut reflected sharply off the shiny underside of the disc. Unaccustomed to the glaring light, many blinded villagers clutched at their eyes, crying out. The chief saw himself in the reflection.

There was a long melodramatic silence, in which I impatiently rummaged through Marshmallow's bag. There didn't seem to be anything else of special importance.

"Sung god."

"_What_?" I asked.

"Sun god. Sun god." Oh. I thought somehow he'd been able to associate a plate-like object with music. Such intelligence would be shocking. "Sun god. Sun god."

Uh oh. I suddenly knew where this was going.

"Sun god, sun god! Revenge!" The chief intoned hauntingly.

Gasps.

Out of the corner of my eye, Marshmallow stirred. With a groan, she sat up slowly. She had soft melty brown eyes, and, er, very disheveled hair.

"Sun god!" The spellbound villagers bellowed as one. All of a sudden, they were born anew.

"Sun god! Sun god!" they cried, running around the room, throwing up their arms. Bless them.

Marshmallow looked around slowly. She took in the children, the villagers, and the village chief attempting to groom his hair using the reflection from her broken CD. She looked straight at me.

And then she smiled. And then she _laughed_. And of course, the dear villagers are so very contagious that soon the entire room was chortling. I found myself chuckling along with the rest of them.   
  
Perhaps she was human after all.


	15. Lara goes skiing

Lara goes skiing 

Author's note: Here we go, chappies – one of the last chapters of Lucky Lara. Parting is such sweet sorrow. I'm going to miss this fic but in addition to Where Silent Lines (which I would REALLY love reviews for!) I'm going to do another… hope I will get reviews for THAT. I'm such a review pig. 

The ride was truly what I could call exhilarating. It was nothing like the rest of my journey had been, and I was sure it'd be something to remember my entire life journey. 

The slope was surprisingly well crafted, and certainly had been altered by hand. It was fairly steep, but perfect for sleds, and perhaps _proper_ skiing.

The ice was so smooth, I wondered if it had ever been used. But further down, below its glassy surface, the ice was jagged, splintered and- well, _torn_. It had been used, but very long ago.

My bag slid easily along, making faint scratches somewhat similar to a broken cassette player, but more pleasant and considerably quieter. The metal pole-stick dug a long snaking trail while serving as a tiler and brakes.

It was tricky going in the dark; even though I could very faintly make out some outlines if I looked closely, like the designs in the ice, the edges of the mountain were impossible to make out at such a high speed. Every few minutes, I forced myself to stop. I dug my stick into the deep ice, stabbing holes in it as I inched left and right. I judged the distance between the two sides and approximately align myself to the center. 

Sometimes I would scrape my pole against the very sides, teetering, trying to see if it was slanting dangerously. Twice I'd tapped the metal stick to my left and felt nothing but thin air.

Faster and faster I rode. The crisp, cool air no longer seemed chilly, and the once-unfriendly mountain slopes had become my playground. The swift breeze may have cleared my head – I didn't feel as nauseated – but I was still overwhelmed by the soaring sense of freedom, pushing a smile in place and tingling down to my very bones. I was sure that I was sane – for now – so then, could it be- could it possibly be _real_? _Was_ I free?

And what on earth could have held all of this back for so many years?

I know this is a little short…

Oh no. She's not through yet. And she isn't going to die, don't worry. According to the bio I am following, we still have one real action scene to get through…. I have to do research on the blasted thing before I start so it might take me a while yet. :  ) I mean, you think the metal stick is really just a stick? 


	16. Debt

**Author's note:** Here it is. The last chapter of Lucky Lara. *sniffle* Gosh, I had such a great time doing this. Still, there are always my other fics, and I'd truly love some reviews for those… ;  ) Thanks very much to everyone who reviewed.

I might do a sequel… a short one. You never know. Anyway this wraps up everything – I invented a name for Dr. Laisky because the records didn't provide me with one. Thanks to Ariel, whose brother's name I used. Lol.

I think I repeated myself a lot at the ending. Sorry.

Dr. Laisky was an American missionary doctor, so I included a mild Christian theme in this chapter. It's a bit brief, without anything exciting like falling off mountains, but I hope it came out short, sweet, and memorable as an ending.

Thank you all very much. *blows kisses to the crowd and waves* Finally, I'll print and revamp this soon, so there might be changes eventually.

~*~*~*~*~*~

It was a long time before I could bring myself to go outside. When I did, somebody's dog was running towards me and I screamed and ran back in. I was totally paranoid for two more glorious hours until Laisky took me by the hand and led me out. There was something comforting about him I just couldn't place.

Rescue workers had flown in with supplies, and I'd helped nick some for Evan – that was his name. When the villagers fell ill, he was nearly always short of medication. We grew close. He said it was wonderful to speak English to someone but we both knew it wasn't much that.

The reporters poured in too. When they passed me a card from my parents, I felt strangely disconnected and uncomfortable – numbed. That was something I couldn't quite fathom either. I cried when one of them asked me about Rebecca. They understood.

I soon got to know the villagers too. The medics had informed me that by no means was I leaving in my current constitution. Together Evan and I would crack private jokes about the chief. The children were overjoyed to see all of us, and we'd sneak them bars of chocolate we'd stolen from the fatter reporters. We figured they wouldn't need them much.

Despite all this, it wasn't a happy time. I spent a lot of my time sitting outside in the snow in the new coat the villagers had provided me with, staring at that huge white expanse at the snow-capped peaks in the distance. It bordered on agoraphobia. Death. It hovered upon us like a drifting shadow, I realized, forever there, just waiting for his dice to cease rolling, to choose its victims, to hold the, in his snare… all to be encompassed by the eternal snows.

The night before I had to leave, I wished I'd broken my leg, or my neck even. I suddenly had no real desire to return home. To look death in his ugly face and laugh at his scythe. How would my parents react? A horrible thought struck me. How would the parents of those girls react? These girls who hadn't been as lucky. What would become of me? And what about the children? The chief? Would they remember me when I was gone? The ape-man? A lump formed in my throat. What about Evan?

The chief seemed to have requested peace, because Evan and I had the hut to ourselves. I won't deny it was awkward. I knew we kept glancing at each other between the food, and we simply couldn't find anything to say, even though there was so much we wanted to talk about.

"So you're leaving tomorrow." It was a statement. I was sitting next to him at the table, but he barely turned to the right to look at me.

"Yes." What else could I have said? And then the words flew out of my mouth. "But I'll hate myself for it."

"Why?" Evan seemed to genuinely want to know, unlike the painfully forced conversation we'd been making throughout the meal. 

"Well, firstly, the weather in England is miserable." We shared a laugh. Everyone makes fun of our climate.

"Then, there's all the money at home," I found myself saying. "All the rich furnishings and marbled floors. When I came here-" I paused.

Evan's eyes widened, blue irises flashing. "Lara, do you know why God called me here?" I shook my head, blanching. Religion always bugged me a bit. "Because I felt exactly the same way. I didn't want all that money. All the wealth in the world! What could you do with it?" He closed his eyes, deep in thought. "There was only so much you could do with money for charity…" he added, raking his fingers through his light brown hair. "So I took my degree in medicine and followed God over here.

"My parents thought it was absurd. A sturdy young man, full of promise, curing illiterate people who lived out in a place without a consistent flow of electricity. They said I was mad. Mad!" He spread his arms out in a wide, sweeping motion. "Mad! When I could openly say that it was what God had been calling me to do all along. God is not mad.

"Tell me, Lara," he asked suddenly, "What do you think of God?"

I swallowed. "I admire your faith," I started cautiously. "And if you are truly one of His followers… He must be a gracious God."

His gaze was very intensely on me. "But what has He been calling you to do?"

I shook my head sadly. "He can't be calling me. I like guns." I laughed shortly.

Evan didn't. "Lara, God works his wonders through ordinary people. You never know."

I looked down and finished the rest of my meal in silence. Evan followed suit and didn't seem to pursue the matter.

"What else?" It took me a moment – or several – to realize what he was referring to. 

"I'll miss the villagers, and the chief, and the dogs, even though they don't like me. And I'll miss the snow, and the mountains, even though they didn't much like me either." I found myself babbling away like a little girl. My eyes watered and I fought to keep the tears in. Why was I crying? I was leaving the godforsaken place for a place I could truly call home, wasn't I?

_Was I?_

 Evan inched his stool forward. "And?" He was so close that I could feel his breathing falling softly on my skin…

"I'll miss you," we said together. His lips were warm on mine, but his eyes were shut and he didn't see the tears rolling down my cheeks; tears that said we could never, ever be destined to be together.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Well, they flew a whole helicopter in for the daughter of Lord Henshingly Croft. And they flew a whole crew of news people to record the day. Their only problem was that she wasn't there. She was hiding under her bed; hiding from the world, hiding from her life. I knew they would find me sooner or later, but I couldn't stop thinking. I just couldn't stop.

Eventually, I just crawled out myself. Why?

For the very reason that I'd rather come out myself than let them find me. I didn't want their sugary sympathy or false comfort: you poor thing, you must be so afraid. They just hadn't been through what I'd been through. And if life was going to tear me out from under that bed, like it already had done, I would rather come out and fight it myself.

I wasn't going to hide myself behind skirts or finishing school or friends or fathers. I realized how very alone I was. Only I could do what I wanted to do with myself. 

Still, life had already slapped me in the face with death and depression. Pain and progress. Love and loss. All this had left me with these thoughts – unsettled spirits drifting in my mind endlessly. But I had a lifetime to puzzle them out.

A whole lifetime. Not like the others buried under the ground. I could _choose_. Fate had dealt me this chance, and I might never get it again. What about God? What if God had done it? A God who'd brought Evan to what he was today surely couldn't be completely wrong. 

I shook my head mentally. Religion was too deep for me right now.

I heard people shouting when I strode out of Evan's hut, blinking in the bright light and hugging my trusty backpack close to my chest. Someone roughly took me by the hand and led me to the helicopter. 

My heart sank when I didn't see the villagers in the crowd. Not even Evan. My personal slave driver informed me that someone had taken them inside as they did not want them injured by the helicopter or anything. Injured! People rode in those things for crying out loud! And there were at least a billion people all swarming around. Or didn't they count?

And that was when I saw the window. The window in the chief's hut was crammed with people, all waving back at me. By now Slave Driver was tugging on my seatbelt and my hands were pinned to my sides. It felt so good to see them. I couldn't wave back but it didn't matter to them. Evan mouthed 'God bless you'.

I sure could use all the gods' blessings.

The chopper was off in the air sooner than I expected. I half expected to see a desperate reporter or two clinging on to the runners. It wasn't until we were cruising over the mountain that I fully leaned back in my seat.

The mountains had taken so much from me. And given me so much. 

I smiled. Someday, I'd return and pay off my debt.


End file.
